The distance hidden in armlengths and fingerprints
by Hand-print-on-my-shoulder
Summary: Dean's been acting reckless, stupid, taking chances. Sam's having an issue with how close he comes to losing him every week. A final bullheaded action and he's had enough of his older brother ignoring his own mortality. Angst, fighting, incestuous relations, etc. Swearing, sexual content, a little bit of bloodshed.


It started over stupid shit, like it always did. Dean was a little too reckless on the hunt, too a few too many stupid risks that could have gotten them both killed- "But it didn't, Sammy, fuck!" was always the reply. As if it fixed everything. It escalated from there, the way it did every fucking time; Sam slammed the Impala door too hard, Dean knocked him out of the way to get into the room first, Sam retaliated by sending a boot into his brother's ankle hard enough to send him briefly towards the carpet. Alright, so maybe not like every single time.

"You could have fucking died, Dean! You're not a twenty-something hotshot with nothing to lose anymore. When are you going to start realizing that a kamikaze death match is not how you handle things?!"

Shoving himself up from the partial trip, Dean turned around with a mocking snarl, eyes flat and sharp as he snapped, words like the crack of a whip, "Oh, give it a goddamn rest, Sammy. I'm fine! You're fine, the family's fine, and the fucking thing is dead! I'm out a few ounces of blood for bait and a little scratch on my arm, boo-fucking-hoo. We did the job and everybody lived to regret living through it, so knock it the fuck off and eat your food." Said food in a paper sack, tossed on the table and less important than a match in a wind storm to Sam at this point.

"No, it's not fine, you asshole! These things hunt their prey for years once they even get a taste of the victim's blood, and you dumped yours all over the damned thing the first chance you got! What if it came when we weren't ready yet, huh? And what if that family heirloom wasn't actually made of ivory, what then? You think there's anywhere within driving distance that has an ivory dagger we could have gotten before that thing ripped you to pieces? It was stupid, fucking stupid and I am SICK of this attitude you have about it! Dean, one of these days it's not going to be 'fine'!" Shaking his head, he walked closer, getting in his face, trying to make his stubborn brother see for once.

"_Exactly_, Sam! It already had a taste of the nine-year-old girl, and the only way to get it off her was give it a bigger, meatier target! I drowned the fucker in my blood, hell yes! There's no way I'm letting someone die when I'm right there to take the hit, and you'd do the exact same thing! It's who we are, Sam. It's our lives, our jobs- what even is the point of all this if we're not going to save one girl because we're too _scared_ to make ourselves a target?!" Far from backing down, Dean got into Sam's face, noses nearly touching as they snapped and snarled at each other. "Yes, Sammy," he said slowly, as if to a child. "One day something will go wrong- it ALWAYS does- and I'm going to die. Or you, or both of us. That's how hunters go, and if the fucking angels and demons and God knows what else don't get us first, that's the only end we've got coming! But not today. Today, the knife was the real deal, the monster's dead, the civilians are alive, and we're fine. So stop the bitching before your uterus drops and I have to start buying you tampons."

He was angrier than he'd been in a long damn time, and with Dean around every minute, that said something. Teeth clamping down, Sam shook his head, hating how goddamn reasonable his brother was trying to be. Didn't he get it? "So, who the hell cares about actually trying to stay alive as long as possible, huh? Who cares that if you were more careful, you'd have a long-ass career ahead of you instead of expecting to land dead in a ditch at any moment! And who the fuck cares if I have to watch you die, _again_, and go on alone, _AGAIN_, because you're too much of a reckless asshole to even pretend you don't have a death wish!" Each word was a little louder, a little closer, until he was shoving Dean back, chest bones clashing, hands reaching up to slam against shoulder muscle.

Nothing but contempt and old, shadowed hurt showed in the green eyes when he sneered at him, "You're a big girl, Samantha, you can live without me just fine. Did it for over a year, remember?" That sneer turned vicious, wild and feral from the first shove, like lightning flickered in the hollows of his eyes and the curl of his lip. "Don't fucking touch me, Sammy, not now. I've had it up to here with your bull-" Another hard shove, keeping him from finishing his sentence, because Sam was beyond pissed now, beyond hurt, and he didn't care if this ended with both of them limping- hell, sounded good right now.

Retaliation was immediate, the snake-strike of knuckles to his face as Dean's temper snapped, leaving the sting and ache of a good punch throbbing in his mouth. Sam could have stopped it there, ended this by not responding and letting his brother stomp out for alcohol and brooding, but there was no way he could, not now. A sun-bright shock of impact sang up his arm as he turned back from the hit and backhanded Dean across the face with the hard bones of the back of his hand, diving forward for the follow up. Fast, to try and keep Dean off balance as he stumbled back, but he was faster, always had been, and it showed as he put his elbow into Sam's jaw, followed with a fast jab and the sudden impact of Dean's fist to the muscle of his stomach. Fuck, he meant business. Good. Sam wanted to feel it, to pummel himself and his brother against the glaring spikes of their dysfunction until neither of them could run away, move around them, lie about it anymore.

Blood sprayed red and wet across the wallpaper from the fist into Dean's nose, spinning him half around and sending him bodily into the dresser. It hurt, almost blinding, but he had stayed alive this long by striking out hardest when he was badly injured, and Sam didn't get a free pass anymore. Leg lashing out, he caught his boot heel on his brother's hip and shoved, knocking him back. It was enough of a stumble for him to leap forward from the bruise-inducing dresser edge and shove his forearm under Sam's neck, knee slamming hard into thigh muscles to weaken them, a backlash of his ankle on the same leg to try and bring his sasquatch of a brother to the ground. His brother swayed, but he was sturdier on his feet than Dean ever would be, and he shoved back, twisting his arm around for the trouble.

Grip on him for the moment unbreakable, Sam spun Dean around, shoving his head and shoulders through the decorative half-wall divider, needing the crash, the noise of shattering glass and the low, pained grunt from the man he had a hold of. He needed it, like he needed that tight, bruising grip itself, the ache in his hands that would end in swelling, scabbed knuckles. He needed to remember that Dean was still here, alive to bleed, to lash out, to break. As long as they were still breakable, they were still alive.

Glass cuts were a bitch, thin and long on his face and bleeding into his eyes. It made him struggle harder, head slamming back to beat his skull into the bridge of Sam's nose, hoping the muffled noise meant he broke it; the pain was enough to loosen the hold on his arms whether he did or not, but he wanted to see the bruises on his brother's face for a while. Breaking loose of the hold, he stumbled briefly, dizzy, because he hadn't exactly gotten off as light as he claimed in the fight earlier, and now this. But he was a fighter, a scrapper to the end, and fuck if his baby brother was putting him on the floor for a second time over a stupid fight. At least this time there wasn't a demon bitch involved.

It only took that memory, something he kept clutched tight behind walls most of the time, to have him spinning and slamming his shoulder into Sam's guts, taking them both down in a heap of bruised limbs and blood spatters. Straddling his brother, he took the advantage while he had it, punching him in the face once, twice before he was bodily lifted by the hips and thrown sideways, his back and the cheap table colliding before the table gave and he landed in the wreckage. Sam was there, right there, because the fucker was almost as fast as Dean, and then the weight on his legs told him he was in for the long haul as one massive fist, then the other, took turns whiting out his vision with the cold-stinging shock of impact to his face.

It was like once he had Dean pinned down, he lost all control. He hit him, with both hands, then found himself choking his brother, grip too tight on his throat, on his shirt collar, shaking him now while he yelled. What even was he saying? He wasn't even sure at this point, tasting desperation and the edge of hysteria at the back of his throat as he hauled Dean halfway up, a sitting position to meet his eyes, and snarled at him, "I can't lose you again, god damn it! Not again. Not after all this. Please, just… please-" His brother just stared at him, that bone-deep Winchester stubborn in every bloody line of his face, every fleck of green and gold in his eyes, and Sam felt something crack. Enough. He wasn't listening. This was… it wasn't solving anything, and part of him literally couldn't pretend it was anymore.

Dropping him back down to the floor, he got up on shaky legs, stumbling backwards, hands pressed to either side of his face; careful around his nose, but even the pain of a potential break didn't cut through the choking, burning tightness working up his chest into his eyes. He knew he was messing up their rhythm, the pattern of beating the crap out of each other until the problem was gone, but he just… couldn't. This fucking sucked, and he was tired of always being the one that couldn't drown it in enough whiskey bottles and cheap women. Sam took a deep, heavy breath, then another, trying to shove it back in under the walls; it wouldn't move. It just stayed there, suffocating him, drawing in the walls until he felt like he was drowning.

"Sam." One word, quiet, maybe a little guilty, accompanied the hand on his shoulder, and he lashed out, trying to shove it off. "Don't- fucking, don't, Dean-!"

Gritting his teeth at the flinch, Dean tug his fingers in harder, spinning the bigger man around and pushing him back, telling himself he hated it when his brother went boneless like this, when there was no fight to keep him steady. Telling himself there wasn't a satisfaction when he shoved Sam's back against the wall, pressed in close until the wet green-blue of Sam's eyes had to meet his, a deeper and earthier green, tight with both remorse and residual anger.

"Shut up, Sammy. Just… for once in your goddamn life, just shut up." Then he was leaning in, licking the blood off the split in his lip and smearing it over Sam's as he pushed their mouths together, a single point of soft and warm amid the aching bruises and still-hard grips of their hands on each other. An apology, of sorts, the only way his brother knew how to give them.

Sam didn't remember the first time it had happened, didn't care to try at the moment. Not like the idea wasn't there most of the time, a rough and unsteady undercurrent to whatever they were doing. It was only like this, though, when they had broken each other down in whatever way they could, that it ever manifested in action. The taste of his brother's mouth was sweet and stinging on the cuts of his lips, like the acid of fruit juice, eating into him even as he opened for the taste. He always did, because there wasn't anything he wouldn't do for Dean, and they both knew it.

They knew, and knew it went both ways. They said it, not out loud, but in the new way they gripped each other- just as brutal, bruises in the wake of fingertips, but pulling closer, clinging, needing the intimacy of any scrap of skin they could find. Hands slid over fabric, under the hems of shirts and jackets until they fell to the floor, but they never broke the contact of their eyes or their lips. The way they kissed each other was too desperate to be called passion, hurt too much for pleasant descriptions, but it was them and it was what they needed; aching, but holding tighter, because the pain reminded them it was still real, not a dream, not an illusion scraped out of a monster's mind or a hell-induced episode. This was them; Sam, Dean, and the shaky blood-red creature they turned into together.

Knowing each other this well had some advantages, like moving together in sync when they wanted the same thing. Each movement parried off another, Dean's arms sliding back for Sam's hands pushing his jacket and button-down shirt back; the arch of Sam's spine as Dean pulled off all his shirts in one go, not caring if he caught at wounds, or perhaps caring and doing it on purpose. Skin was easy to get to, fabric slipped away to the floor, hands gripping over bruises, over bandages, pressing down to make the pain flare brighter between them. All hunters were masochists to a certain degree, the long years of getting beaten into a bloody pulp manifesting somehow, whether emotional, physical, or some other way only a head doctor could tell you. Dean didn't care, didn't need words or explanations to tell him why he hissed and arched into the grip on his arm, instead of away. He didn't need normalcy, or anything outside this room right now. He only needed Sam, the heat and weight of him as they moved together, the reassuring bite of fire and metal as those massive hands squeezed down on the places he hurt most.

It was Sam who finally broke the kiss. Twisting them around until it was Dean at the wall and Sam in front of him, he worked his way down his older brother's body, making up for the new bruises with even more, this time left by tongue and teeth, the dark, blossoming marks small apologies of his own as he raked his nails down the length of Dean's chest. Alive, blood pumping hot and red under the scar-crossed skin. Maybe he wouldn't be tomorrow, cold instead, still and unmoving like he'd been so many times before in Sam's memory. Maybe he only had now, so he'd push aside the despair and just feel, for a little while, what it was to be alive together. On his knees now, looking up the length of his body to watch Dean's eyes flare dark and wide, his mouth open on a stuttering breath as his pants were pulled down and pulled off one foot, then the other. Bare now, exposed from head to toe; long thigh muscles shivering until Sam's hand slid broad and soothing over them, face pressed into one curving hipbone. Breathing in, his smell and warmth, breathing out shaky and rough. Fingers slid through his hair, reminding him, another point of contact between them that strengthened the strained pull of their bonds.

Slipping down to the floor himself, letting the bruises on his knees throb but not caring, face to face in the cradle of Sam's body and the wall. Eyes softer now, deliberate as he leaned into his brother; lips warm and tongue wet as they slid together. Dean leaned into him, making sure their bodies pressed close as they could, knees spreading to press into the inside of his brother's legs. Slower now, but with more purpose, they moved; broad hands cupping skulls, jawlines, mouths filthy-wide and open against each other. Up on their knees, then scrambling to their feet, fingers dragging down Sam's hips, Dean's thighs, both of their backs. The last barrier gone as Sam's jeans joined the piles of discarded fabric on the floor, two gasps in the room at the shock of contact between their hips and the flush, needing skin there.

More furniture broke, the crash of a lamp to the floor as they spun, dizzy and panting, mouths and teeth, fingers and claws. Warm, solid muscle pressing tight, tighter together, until one's pulse beat against the ribs of the other, erratic and out of tempo but somehow in a matching beat. The violence was still in the room, simmering at the edges of their skin, shot through now with fire and need and something they couldn't look at head-on for the blurring of their vision. It was there, though, in the tight press of Sam's fingers in Dean's skin as he lifted him off his feet, slamming him back into the wall, kept him there with the pressure of his hips and chest. It was in the teeth in Dean's neck, the possessive grip Sam had, needed to have, needed to bruise into his skin like a signature. Whatever little time they had left, whatever broken shards of his brother were still here, they were his, and he refused to let them slip away so easily.

Dean threw his head back against the wall, the bruise on his skull pulsing red hot pain through his brain that played counterpoint to the ache of want, the bone-deep hurt of need that every brush of Sam's fingers gave him. He needed this, the tightly claiming grip, the solid anchor of the body holding him up. Perhaps without it, he would fly apart, shatter like the glass on the floor, blue-black and brittle. Catching each other's eyes, they stayed still for a long moment, holding the silence, the suspense. Words on his tongue, he knew Sam needed to hear, but someone had to break first, and the wait was part of the release. Those blue-hazel eyes stripped him naked, though, and he let himself go, dropping his mouth to Sam's, licking his way in, lips forming the words in their shared breath.

"Sammy. Come on. Want it, want you. Come on."

He kissed him back, hard and slick, tongues pressing on the edges and twisting around each other. "Want what?" He growled, biting down, opening the split skin to smear red metal through his brother's taste. He would make him say it, make him beg, and Dean wanted him to.

He wanted it, alright. Wanted the burn of heat across his face, the twist of humiliation in his stomach as he bucked in the tight grip. "I want you to fuck me." Important, here, these words like their own kind of bruise that stuck somewhere out of sight. "Split me open, mark me up." Dragging his nails down his body, taking hold of himself at the base to keep from getting too far by himself. "Hurt me until I beg for it, Sammy, but don't let me go."

His skin felt like to split under the pressure of holding back how much he wanted to tear him apart. Sam growled, leaning in to bite at the column of Dean's throat, slick mouthed and sucking yet another mark into the skin he loved and hated. He would do everything Dean wanted, he always did, because he wanted it too. Wanted him bruised and bloody, slick and aching, on the edge of a scream as Sam fucked him into the wall. "You want it that bad, don't you. You'd beg on your hands and knees, that pretty mouth working me over until I gave you what you wanted." Sam put his fist into the wall, because he didn't want to hit his brother, not at the moment. "You keep forgetting who you belong to, bleeding yourself for a monster when every piece of you is mine first."

"You love it when I do, shove me down on my knees like some whore for you to mouth fuck." Shivering, he nodded, arching into the press of Sam's body, legs wrapped tight around his legs, held up by bruising fingers and the heat of solid muscle mass. "I know."

"No, you don't." Shaking his head, smile twisted, on the edge of an emotion he couldn't hold onto. He bit it, kissed it into his brother's shoulder instead. _You don't know how much I hate knowing you're gonna be gone any minute, and nothing I do is going to keep you here_, he wanted to say. He didn't, just bit down, and put his fingers against Dean's lips. "Suck."

He did. How could he not, mouth heavy and warm, spit pooling low in his jaw. Dean opened his mouth, sucked two fingers down, not stopping when they pressed hard into his throat, bruising. Moving his head, bobbing over Sam's hand, the thick, hard-boned digits stretching his lips, his throat enough to make more saliva puddle in his mouth. Slicking his brother's fingers before they were pulled away, and his gut clenched, knowing what was next. The sharp clamp of teeth breaking through his skin as he yelled, one hand hauling him up by the leg as the other dipped down and breached him in a single push.

They didn't do gentle, didn't do nice, not with each other; not in moments like this. No, there was nothing but rough, shoving pressure, forcing him open, spit just enough to keep him from bleeding yet. Jaw clamped down, he pressed back into the wall and groaned, rocking into the movements even if there was no pleasure, not yet. It burned, and it stung, especially when Sam scissored his fingers abruptly and shoved in a dry third.

Maybe he shouldn't love it when he made his big brother scream, but he did, needed it like air, sucking it off his lips as he forced his fingers up inside him. In a minute, he'd toss them both on the bed, grab the lotion, do this right. In a minute, but for now, this pain-wracked creature in his arms was his to forge into whatever he wanted. Tongue slipping against his brother's, he coaxed him into the kiss, bringing him back slowly from the shaking, jittering high point of the pain. When the iron grip on his fingers eased, letting him press in deeper, flex wider, he knew Dean was as ready as he'd get like this. He loved the burn in his arms as he lifted his brothers entire weight by his legs, keeping him pressed close to his own body as he backed up, to the nearest bed and who cared whose it was?

The mattress made them bounce as they hit it, shoving them together from dick to breastbone. Something between a gasp and a laugh caught in Dean's throat as they scrambled over each other. For fun, he raked his nails down Sam's back, using the sharp side, making his brother arch and hiss out a breath, and oh, yes, he liked what that did to their hips. Reaching over the side, shoving his hand through the bag of crap until he had something- foot lotion, it looked like, the fuck Sammy- and tossed it at his brother. "Slick me up, baby brother, gonna need it."

A slow, filthy grin crossed his brother's mouth and he took the lotion, getting his fingers messy with it. "You've taken me dry before," he reminded him quietly, voice rough as he shoved all three fingers back inside, spreading the lotion inside his brother's hole.

"Nnnnghh-!" Groaning, Dean spread his legs wider, hips tilting to take it because fuck if it didn't hurt just right, stretching and burning, the rough jab of blunt fingers to his prostate a strange kind of perfect. The memory of that day made him shudder; that had been the day after he saw Sam for the first time since he came back from Hell, and they hadn't been able to wait, tearing into each other's skin on the floor of the cheap motel as soon as they were alone. "Shut up and fuck me, bitch," he snapped, bucking his hips demandingly and getting a rough laugh for his trouble.

"Such a greedy, fucking, jerk," Sam panted, lining himself up with the slick fist and slamming forward, nothing nice, nothing gentle, just the mass of his erection forcing its way in and the choking whine Dean made as he arched up into it. God, his brother was tight, every single time, no matter how hard or rough it was the last time. Short, quick movements of his hips, and he watched the stretch of pink skin swallow him until he bottomed out and they both whimpered.

After that, all bets were off. Teeth clamping into shoulders, fingers digging into muscle, Dean's legs tossed around the pistoning of his hips. It was fast, brutal, the sound of slapping skin loud in the room, undertoned by rough breathing and the yelp Dean made whenever Sam slammed into his prostate. As much as he loved watching his brother's face when he fucked him, though, the violence still under his skin had him pulling back, hauling the slightly smaller man around to his hands and knees, blanketing him with his bigger body and slamming back in to the hilt.

Vision whiting out a little at the hard impact to his prostate, Dean arched his spine, forearms on the bed and legs spread wide to put his ass in the air. It had been a while but it was always perfect, and if he was twisted for loving his baby brother's dick fucking him this hard, well, too bad. He started yelling, unable to stop himself when Sam was hitting the nerves with every snap of his hips; a moment later he felt his brother lean in more, teeth clamping on his neck, one big hand sliding under his arm to wrap snugly around his throat.

"Shhh," Sam hissed, hips moving faster in counterpoint to the soft slide of his tongue on Dean's ear. "I know you love it, but keep it down. You want the neighbors hearing?" Underneath him, Dean shuddered, biting his lip and pushing himself back into the hard-hitting thrusts of Sam's dick. "You do, don't you. Want them to hear you screaming for me, to know exactly how much you love it when I've got you like this. You play big leader but you're happiest on your knees, aren't you, big brother?"

Fuck, he was close, heat pooling in his hips, at the base of his dick, every movement in the tight cavity of Dean's body a step closer to the edge. A twist to the way he shoved into him, and Dean yowled, the sound muffled from the tight fingers just squeezing the edge of his larynx. "Say it. Tell me, Dean, how much you love it. How much you need it, come on baby, tell me."

His world had narrowed to the fire down his spine, the fullness in his ass, spikes of pleasure and pain merging together as he was held down, dominated, fucked senseless. Each word sent filthy-hot want crawling under his skin, until his body was so goddamn close he could feel himself leaking onto the bed, his own cock heavy and untouched under him. "Sammy," he groaned, swallowing against the firm pressure on his neck. Every muscle in his body was starting to shake, white spots behind his eyes. "Please, baby brother, harder, fuck. Need it, need you, please-!"

Sam bit down again, hand sliding around his brother's hip to clamp on the base of his dick even as he hammered harder, right where he knew Dean needed it. "Whose are you?" His voice was a dark sliver of smoke in the room, harsh and demanding in the worst way. "Tell me. Who do you belong to, big brother?"

Actual tears in his eyes from the pleasure building painfully, orgasm withheld by the hand clamping on him, Dean shuddered all over and broke down. "Yours, I'm yours, just you, just you. Sammy, please, fuck!"

A feral growl, warmth slamming down his spine, and he was coming hard, spilling himself into his brother. The hand on Dean's cock moved, stroking rapidly up and down, pulling his brother over the edge with him. For a long moment they stayed still, muscles straining and locking as they both cried out, loud and ragged, spilling themselves on the bed and each other. After, arms shaking too hard to stay upright, Dean collapsed under Sam's weight, relying on his younger brother to turn them on their sides, heavily-muscled arms wrapped tight around his chest, spooning him from behind. He hadn't pulled out yet, bodies still locked tight together as they came down from the aftershocks. Sweating and breathing hard, Dean laid still, eyes closed, and surrendered all control of himself, let his brother turn and move them as he liked. Eventually their bodies separated, making him grunt a little; something wiped his skin, cleaning him up- might have been underwear- and then he was being pulled into an embrace again.

Running his hands gently down his brother's body, soothing the post-orgasm jitters from the muscle, Sam let himself slip then, show just a little more of himself than usual. Lips running along the back of his brother's neck, fingers tracing the edge of the red-splotched bandage on his arm, he said very quietly, "I don't know how much longer I can still reach out and feel you here. Can't you… try a little harder to be safe? For me?"

Eyes closed, Dean didn't speak for a long time, before he finally sighed, rolling back towards his brother and pressing his body into Sam's, his face into the other man's throat. "Alright, Sammy. I'm sorry, okay? Just… I'm not going anywhere. You gotta believe in that. Even when I left you, I always came back, and I always will. Try to have a little more faith in me, okay? …Now fucking go to sleep, I'm tired."

That was as good as it was going to get. Nodding a little, Sam bit back the ache, the protest, and let them both drift off without further comment.


End file.
